


Desperado

by lizdarcy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark Stiles, Dom Derek, Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sub Stiles, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:22:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizdarcy/pseuds/lizdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Scrubbing wasn’t something that actually happened, it was a nightmare out of a sub-children’s story. It was the tales his mother told him when he misbehaved. </i>
</p><p>  <i>“That’s impossible. How have you survived?”</i></p><p>  <i>Stiles looked away. He honestly didn’t know.</i></p><p>Stiles Stilinski, sub-son of the late John Stilinski, was Scrubbed after the death of his father. Stripped of his submissive instincts and unable to feel pain, Stiles finds himself shot, bleeding, and headed back to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles stared blandly at the bullet holes in his leg and stomach. He sighed, as if his wounds were just a minor inconvenience. There was no way he could make the rendez-vous point now. The stomach wound would take a long time to kill him, he thought, vaguely annoyed. The bullet in his leg had missed the femoral artery but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t bleed out. He could walk to the hospital; it was only three blocks away. He’d risk abdominal infection, depending on what the bullet hit. He’d also be making an effort to live. Was he really that commited?

 Operating more out of habit than any conclusive desire to live, he began to dig the bullet out of his leg. He bit his tongue and scrunched his eyes, concentrating on getting the sticky, slippery metal.

 “Gotcha,” he said, throwing the bullet up and catching it again. Now, he just had to figure out how to walk three blocks without his guts falling onto the sidewalk.

***

_"Sir? Can I help you? Sir- Code blue! Jen, I've got a code blue in the ER–"_

 

_"Condition's critical, but his vitals are all over the place, we can't get a read on them."_

 

_"...he just walked right in, no collar, no ID, two gun shot wounds..."_

 

" _He dug out the bullet himself, they're saying he's Scrubbed."_

_***_

He blinked his eyes open, the disorientation of anesthesia relatively absent. 

He had been shot. He had walked to the hospital, where he must've collapsed. He was in a hospital bed. 

He brought a hand to his abdomen and felt the stitches there. The skin felt hot, but not feverish. He was healing. 

"Oh, you're awake!"

Yes, how observant, Stiles thought wryly. The nurse was a sub. The energy of a Dom presence was missing, though he knew he wouldn't be able to feel it anyway. He could tell by the way she carried her body, the frenetic movements she made as she checked his vitals. "I have to get the doctor, just hang tight, sweetie."

It's not like there was anywhere he could go. He was safer here for the time being when he could fill up on food and worry a little less about the people he knew would be looking for him when they discovered his body wasn't where it was supposed to be. He'd give himself a day and if they didn't find him before that, he'd trade in the hospital bed for a bus ticket. Moving around was almost more effort than it was worth. He had no reason to fear death; there was nothing holding him here anymore. 

When it came down to it though, he couldn't let go. 

"Our John Doe. You're awake, and remarkably calm for the circumstances." The doctor carried herself with the calm composure of a woman in charge. Stiles watched as the nurse subconsciously reoriented herself to defer to the Dom in the room. That would've been him too, in the past. 

"Nerves of steel, that's me.”

“Do your steel nerves have a name?”

“Scott Lahey,” he answered, without missing a beat.

“Well, Mr. Lahey, it seems... You’re Scrubbed.”

Scrubbed. Scrubbing wasn’t something that actually happened, it was a nightmare out of a sub-children’s story. It was the tales his mother told him when he misbehaved.

It was true.

“Yeah."

She blinked at him, so surprised she didn’t notice that he didn’t use her correct title as a Dom. “You’re aware of this?”

He smiled, though he felt no humor. “It happened a long time ago.”

“That’s impossible. How have you survived?”

Stiles looked away. He honestly didn’t know.

Scrubbing happened to subs under extreme duress or after trauma, when they weren’t given the proper care they needed. It was their body’s ways of protecting them from sub drop-induced shock and nervous system failure. When subs were denied touch or physical closeness, when they endured solitude for extended periods of time, their nervous systems would begin to go into withdrawal, and eventually would shut down completely. There were cases, legends really, of subs who could unwrite their sub coding, so to speak. They could scrub their systems clean from any need to submit. They could numb themselves, but that meant going numb to everything. The nervous system would go into a type of hibernation. Pain sensors were muted, empathy and sympathy was dulled. Hormones, body temperature, even heart rate was all altered. Adrenaline and cortisol levels elevated exponentially to counteract the lack of pain, resulting in peaks of intense energy and heavy crashes.

“We couldn’t give you pain medication because we didn’t know how your body would react to them along with the anasthesia. But your vital signs during surgery only altered in coordination with blood loss, never pain or stress, even though you were awake for part of the procedure,” the doctor explained.

Of course not. He couldn’t feel pain.

“Quite frankly, Mr. Lahey, we’ve never dealt with anyone who had a condition like yours, and though your wounds will heal just fine, you are still in critical condition. We’re transferring you to a special submissive trauma center that is better equipped to handle your case.”

Stiles shook his head, eyes wide. They’d try to unScrub him. He couldn’t let that happen.

“You can’t do that. I’d like to be discharged. I don’t consent to this. I’m not a sub anymore.”

The doctor looked at him, her eyes filled with something between fear and sadness. Something close to pity. “Unfortunately, your condition makes you particularly suceptible to suicidal thoughts and actions, and legally speaking, you are not considered fit to make decisions regarding your health or wellbeing. Your next-of-kin will be notified as soon as we can locate them. Your transfer will be as soon as an emergency flight is available.” The doctor nodded to nurse, who had a syringe connected to his IV drip.

“No, no, I don’t consent! You can’t do this!” He began to panic, thrashing in the hospital bed, fighting against the extra nurses called in to hold him down.

“Sedate him! He’ll need another dose in-flight, his body is burning through it too quickly. We’ve got a helicopter with an ETA of seven minutes, get him rolling!”

Despite the anasthesia weakening his struggles, the hallway grayed and swooped in and out around him.

“It’s a two-hour flight to Beacon Hills, make sure...”

Beacon Hills. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go...

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

She drifted into consciousness slowly, rising through the warm comfort of _you’re safe_ that had settled into her dreams. The voices were hushed, more soothing now than the frightening command they normally spoke with. She stirred, turning onto her side, towards the warmth she felt.

Before opening her eyes, she took stock. She was safe. Judging by the beeping, she was in a hospital bed. Yes, the Beacon Hills Submissive Rehabilitation Center. She had been here for a week. She had ran away from James. She was safe. She wasn’t alone.

She opened her eyes. “You’re here again,” she whispered, though the words had an unwavering strength that belied the hush of the sound.

The Dom sitting beside her bed looked up and squeezed her hand. “I didn’t realize you knew I came,” he answered. He didn’t smile, but his eyes were kind. They were an array of greens and blues, softening the angles of his face, the darkness of his hair and eyebrows. They made him look sad rather than the anger suggested in his stiff posture and furrowed brow.

“I can always tell when you’ve visited. My... head is quieter when I wake up.”

He looked down, still doing that odd not-smiling, but she could tell he was pleased.

“My name is Lydia,” she said.

“Derek.”

His manner was stern, a little abrupt, but she wasn’t afraid of upsetting or displeasing him. There was a quiet countenance of calm around him. His hand was on hers, his thumb stroking the back of her palm.

“You’re a volunteer,” she stated. It wasn’t a question; she wasn’t going to ask him permission.

Derek’s lips twitched, amused by her assertion. “Yes. My sister is Dom Hale. I come here for... therapy.”

Interesting. The voices were stilled muted, but she could catch a few words, tinged with melancholy. _Alone, fire, dead, all dead._ The words were morbid, as always. They only knew the language of death and suffering, but they mourned for this Derek Hale, and for a moment, Lydia did, too.

They sat for a while, neither speaking, just experiencing the rarity of a closeness that wasn’t unsettling.

“You stayed this time,” she said, breaking the silence after a seven hundred and twenty-three beeps of her heart monitor. 

He didn’t speak, just met her gaze as if that was enough to answer her unspoken question. She simply raised an eyebrow.

“Today feels different,” he answered. He was right. It did feel different. Derek pulled his hand away, just as the door opened. 

“Hello, Lydia. Nice to see you awake. And calm,” Dom Hale said, smiling as she walked into the room. Laura Hale had the same tentative warmth of Derek, permeated by the sadness of the hushed voices again. Dom Hale wasn’t alone, or sad the way Derek was, but singed around the edges like him.  “I hope you don’t mind if I steal Derek for a little while. Linda, your nurse, will be in soon to take you to your orientation therapy.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Derek added quietly. He squeezed her hand and smiled at her before following Dom Hale out of the room. The warmth of his presence receded gently, but never quite left her. It was nice. It was safe.

*** 

“You spoke with her today?” Laura asked Derek, her eyes gleaming with a cleverness that made most people nervous.

“Yes. I’m not sure why, before you ask.” He muttered, still reeling from Lydia’s admission that his presence comforted her. It was an unfamiliar feeling, to bring comfort to a submissive, even though the instinct was supposed to be bred in his bones. He’d gone so long steering clear of anything submissive, and even now, though he was seeing a therapist and doing much better, he had still only progressed as far as offering the subtlest Domination while the subs at the Center slept. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel a submissive’s gratitude. To know that he had made his sub feel better. Lydia wasn’t his, but the feeling amounted to the same. He could _do_ something for her. 

“Derek, that’s really big. Honestly. I’m proud of you. Mom and Dad would be, too.” 

He didn’t say anything as they walked through the halls. She sighed and decided she’d come back to it later. “Anyway, it’s perfect timing, because I have a project, well, a patient that I want you to spend some time with. He’s a bit of an odd case, and I think you are just what he needs.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I’m not a doctor. I could mess things up.” Just because he was feeling good after his discussion with Lydia, that didn’t mean he wanted to be responsible for another person’s welfare. He didn’t want to let anyone else down. 

“I think right now, the best thing for him isn’t a doctor, it might just be having someone around he can trust.” This was sounding more and more messy by the minute. It would be even worse if this sub had been neglected or abused or was _fragile._ That was the last thing he could deal with. More expectations. 

“Derek, he’s Scrubbed.”

*** 

He didn’t know what to expect. He had thought that Scrubbing was an urban legend at best. There were reality shows dedicated to it but they were all staged. Almost like spotting Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman.

He and Laura stood outside the room where the Scrub was staying. According to Laura, it was difficult to know what he needed. Putting subs in solitary confinement was risky. Strictly speaking, this didn’t happen. Subs needed touch and physical closeness. Without it, they began to experience withdrawal, became feverish and could become unresponsive. But this sub, well, wasn’t a sub anymore. 

“We don’t really know much about his condition. We know he doesn’t feel pain, but hasn’t lost physical sensation other than pain. His reflexes are much faster than average response time. He has reported emotional disconnection–his own words–but we’re not sure yet how deep the disconnection runs. Right now it seems like complete lack of compassion. He doesn’t respond to Domination in any way. His vital signs don’t even alter. It could be reversible… like he is simply repressing the sub coding in his DNA. However, it could be permanent.” 

“Laura, why are you telling me this?” He finally asked. 

“I was hoping you could spend some time with him.”

What?

“What?”

“Your Dom presence is subtle,” she burst out.

“It wasn’t always like this, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. When you walk into a room, you can feel the presence of another person’s nature, right? Mostly Doms, unless you’re the only Dom in the room.” Now she was really going. “Some Doms have what we call aggressive presences. These can fluctuate but usually flare in the presence of submissives.”

Derek vaguely remembered learning this in school, but it had been right before the fire, and he doesn’t remember a lot from that time. “But mine isn’t like that.”

“You have a reserved presence. It’s not necessarily weaker; it’s just steadier, and so less noticeable. It’s almost like your presence tests the atmosphere of your surroundings and relaxes slowly into the room. It doesn’t encroach on a person’s senses the way an aggressive presence does.”

“That’s very interesting,” he said with a bland smile. Laura was working herself up. She was a parogenic psychiatrist and studied the relationship between Doms and subs, and their mental health and wellbeing. She lived for these discussions. 

“It’s fascinating. If you’d let me, I would spend all day psychoanalyzing you, but–"

“I won’t let you.” He also knew that even though she joked about it, she didn’t really want to. She knew where his issues came from and it wasn’t a place either of them was keen to revisit.

“Yes. I’m aware. Jerk. Anyway, we think that a Dom with a more soothing presence might be able to reach him better.”

“And that’s me.” He scratched at his forehead, more apprehensive than he was comfortable with.

“That’s you.”

 ***

"Scott, this is Derek. He's going to be spending some time with you." Stiles glanced at the doorway where Dom Hale stood with one Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. 

"You can't keep me here like this. It's illegal." Despite the aggressive words, he didn't actually _feel_ angry. There was a mild irritation grown out of boredom. But he wasn't mad or even distressed at the thought of being back in this town. If Dom Hale thought his words were odd for a former sub, she didn't show it. Though he supposed it must be odd for them to meet someone who was neither Dom nor sub. Not even a switch, though some people still didn't count them as a valid category, anyway. He didn't fit the binary, and that had to be confusing for them. Sucked for them. 

"Mr. Lahey, I've told you. Until you can give us your next-of-kin or emergency contact, we're unable to release you. In your condition, you can only be released to a parent, guardian or the equivalent thereof. You have to be monitored." 

"I have to be  _tested._ " He saw Dom Hale flush and knew he wasn't far off.   


"Derek isn't a doctor. He's just here as part of your therapy."

"And part of mine, too," Derek added, quietly. Stiles eyes darted to the man at the door. Now he was a little intrigued.

"You're going to cure me by siccing another another fuck-up on me?" He asked sardonically. Dom Hale flinched.

"Derek is  _not_ a fuck up, Mr. Lahey." The Dom bristled and Stiles watched as Derek put a hand on her arm and pulled her out into the doorway, closing the door behind them. He had clearly touched a nerve there. He wondered if Derek and Dom Hale were involved. Dom Hale obviously felt protective over him. If he didn't know better, he would almost say he was disappointed. He had expected as least another minute or two before he actually got to them. It was a new record.

***

"Laura, maybe it would be better if I took over? We both know that you are closer to the 'aggressive' end of the presence spectrum." Now he had been looking for it, he could feel Laura's presence surge at the kid's words. He knew it was difficult for Doms to control the impulse to discipline when they were offended, even experienced Doms like Laura. "I'll sit with him for a little bit and see if we get anywhere. We'll just talk, and I'll let you know how it goes. He looked at her for a second and sighed. "Don't expect anything, Laur."

She ran her hand through her hair frustratedly. "I know it's a shot in the dark, but I can tell he's hurting. Even if he doesn't feel it, I can."

 "I'll sit with him for a bit. Don't worry about us." She nodded, then stood there. "Laura, go!" He said with a tired laugh. It didn't feel funny.

When he opened the door, the Scrub arched an eyebrow at him. 

"Back for more already? All you had to do was ask, Big Guy."   


Derek ignored the innuendo and pulled the chair over to the Scrub's–Scott's-bedside. "I'm Derek. I'm a Dom."

Scott's eyebrow rose even higher. "Ah, there's the fucked up bit."

Derek snorted. "I guess you can put it that way. Laura prefers to say 'I have a reserved presence.'" Derek knew that he didn't read as a Dom. Nobody ever addressed him with the formal title of Dom, subs often didn't defer to him. He usually didn't feel the urge to Dominate so it wasn't that much of a stretch that others  couldn't feel it either. "My therapist says I have Post-Traumatic Presence Disruption."

This time it was Scott who laughed harshly. "Yeah. Me too. Only for me, it comes with solitary confinement and suicide watch."

"You're not in solitary confinement. I'm here," Derek pointed out.

"Excuse me for not being overwhelmed by your presence. Hah. No pun intended."

Derek rolled his eyes. The ridicule should've made him feel self-conscious. Most Doms would lose their shit over having their dominance questioned or undermined. Derek had taken a course on hegemonic Dominance in college, and knew he didn't quite fit into that niche. He didn't mind.

"I thought as a Scrub you couldn't feel someone's presence?" He asked.

"I can't, but it's easy enough to read a person's body language. We all do it subconsciously anyway."

Derek nodded. That made sense. It was part of the reason that Scott was so unsettling. Where there would normally be the imprint of a sub in his spatial awareness, there was nothing for the Scrub. It was like looking in a mirror and not seeing a person who was standing next to you. Like he wasn't even there. 

Silence settled over them and neither felt much like breaking it. Derek didn't know what to say, and it seemed like Scott had no desire to say anything at all. The TV was playing the local news, but there was no volume on it. 

"Do you want to play the Dot Game?" Derek finally asked. 

"I'm not allowed to have pens or pencils. Just in case I try to dig my jugular out with it," Scott remarked with no inflection. Derek gave him a look. 

"Are you going to kill yourself over a the Dot Game? Good, then we'll play." He handed Scott a pen and set to work drawing up the board on the pad of paper next to the phone. They played three games, and each time Scott beat Derek mercilessly. As Derek drew up the next board, he heard a snap and looked up. Scott was staring at the TV where the Sheriff of Beacon Hills was speaking to the reporter. "Scott. Hey, Scott."  The scrub kept looking at the TV as if he hadn't heard him

" _Scott."_

He finally looked up. "What? Sorry, I got distracted."

"Your hand."

Scott looked down at his hands. "Aw, fuck. Not again." He had blood dripping down his forearm from where the pen stuck out of his palm.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parogenic= _parousia_ meaning presence, _genus meaning race, kind, or type. Basically just a fancy way of saying types of presences. A presence is the name for the manifestation of Dominant or submissive tendencies, physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Parogenics is simply the study of the presence on mental health, and should get pretty interesting. :D_
> 
> _I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!_


End file.
